Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel

She did see something, but what? ‘No,’ she had to admit. She was astute at assessing her opponents, but her brother was a master at detecting the subtle movements of a fencer. It was what had made him so good.

‘Right there, he drops his shoulder,’ Antoine said. ‘Watch closely, he’ll do it again.’

This time she did catch it, but only someone of Antoine’s skill would have noticed without instruction. Julian certainly hadn’t or he would have taken the opportunity to drive his button into the Englishman’s briefly unprotected shoulder.

‘When he recovers from a parry, he drops the shoulder. It’s when he’s most vulnerable.’ Antoine winked at her. ‘We’ll help him fix that, of course, but only after you’ve established yourself with him.’

‘Bien sûr.’ Alyssandra laughed with him. It was an effective strategy for gaining a student’s respect to beat him a couple times before showing him why he’d lost. It proved the instructor knew what he or she was doing in theory as well as practice. But she sobered at the solemn look on her brother’s face. ‘What?’

‘You can beat him, right?’ he asked, worry creasing his brow. ‘If you can’t...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew the reputation of the salon was at stake, as it was any time Alyssandra faced an opponent, masquerading as Antoine Leodegrance, the famed Parisian swordsman.

She smiled to alleviate his concern. ‘I will beat him. All will be well, as it always is. You have taught me perfectly,’ she assured him. She understood his concern. He wanted her to be safe, but he was also frustrated with his own impotence to provide for them without relying on the masquerade. It had been three years since Antoine’s accident, three years since they’d instigated this ruse in order to keep the successful salle d’armes running. No one would willingly study fencing under a woman’s guidance.

Their ‘petite déception’ had worked splendidly up until now. There was no reason to think it would not continue to work. Only one other knew of it and that was Julian, who had as much to lose as they if the secret was exposed. Of course, they had not thought to keep the ruse in place for so long. They’d hoped Antoine would recover the use of his limbs and return to his rightful place as the salle’s master at arms. It was only a matter of time, the physicians had said confidently at the beginning.

After three years, though, she had to wonder how much more time could be allowed to pass before they had to admit Antoine’s recovery was an improbability? And if he didn’t recover? What did that mean for the two of them? Antoine was all the family she had, but they could not sustain the masquerade for ever, for many reasons, not the least being her hopes for a family of her own. The longer she kept up the ruse, the longer she put off her chances to make a worthy match. It might be too late already. Etienne DeFarge had married another last spring, unwilling to wait any longer. Any hopes she’d entertained in that direction were gone now.

But those were thoughts for another time, for a far-off future if it ever came. They had no bearing on tomorrow or the next day. What did matter was the Englishman. Alyssandra turned back to the peephole, intent now on her quarry, all dark thoughts of the future thrust aside along with more seductive visions of a dancing Englishman complete with long legs, broad shoulders and a very kissable mouth. Tomorrow, she thought silently, you, sir,shall meet your match.

Chapter Three (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)

‘En garde!’ Julian Anjou called out, stepping back from the two fencers in the private salle. Haviland assumed the position and faced his opponent, the masked and silent Antoine Leodegrance. Leodegrance had bowed to him respectfully, but other than that, all communication had taken place through Anjou acting as an intermediary. Masked and silent, Leodegrance had an almost surreal presence.

By pre-determined agreement, Leodegrance made the first ‘attaque’. Haviland understood this encounter was more an exercise than a bout. There would be no score kept. Leodegrance would want to see the variety and depth of his skills first-hand. And, frankly, Haviland wanted to see Leodegrance’s. It wasn’t everyone who had the privilege of viewing the selective Parisian’s skill up close.

Parry and thrust, balestra and lunge, battement and liement. Haviland met the drills with ease, his eyes making a study of the great Leodegrance. The man had slim, graceful movements, elegance personified in even the smallest of motions. His parry from the sixte position was flawlessly delivered, his blade up, his wrist supinated. It was the subtlety of these motions that gave the man his edge, the litheness of his movements. Haviland dodged, barely avoiding the tip of Leodegrance’s foil.

By Jove, the man was quick on his feet! With the slightest of efforts, the merest flick of his wrist, Leodegrance had nearly pricked him. There was a certain style to the flick of his wrist that was patently his own and Haviland made quick note of it. It seemed to give him an extra ounce of flexibility in wielding the foil—something easier to note without the Italian preference for a basket over the hilt. With the French blade, one’s grip was exposed on the handle. Leodegrance was using that to envious advantage.

Gradually, the nature of their exercise began to change. The space between them became charged with a competitive electricity. Something combative leapt and sparked between them, a lethal chemistry, more akin to sensual attraction. Leodegrance’s manoeuvres became a seductive dance, stealthy and mesmerising; his strikes came more quickly until Haviland was fully engaged.

The exercise had transformed into an assaut. Haviland grinned beneath his mask, enjoying the thrill of competition. They circled, each one stalking the other, arms and foils held out in full extension to define their space and to protect it. Leodegrance’s frame looked as fresh as when they’d begun, his arm appeared strong. Haviland wondered if it was a bluff. His own arm was starting to ache and yet he dared not waver. Surely, Leodegrance, as slenderly built as he was, was physically affected by the duration of this match.

Haviland wished he could see beneath the full-face mask. Was Leodegrance sweating? He could feel his own sweat trickling down his back, down his face. Leodegrance made a flèche at lightning speed, requiring him to put up a riposte and he did so, proud of the speed of his own reflexes. Haviland parried and moved to launch his own attack. That was when Leodegrance’s foil found his shoulder. He felt the hard press of the wooden button before he saw it, so fast did the strike come. He stared at it in full surprise for a moment before remembering his etiquette.

He bowed as Anjou had bowed before him yesterday in acknowledgement of a fair match and in acknowledgement of the other man’s superiority. It did not gall him to be beaten—this time—it did gall him, however, that he hadn’t seen it coming. The final attack had been most unorthodox, coming as it did on the heels of Leodegrance’s deflected offensive. Haviland had parried the attack. It had been his turn to initiate one of his own, only Leodegrance had not waited. Haviland saw in hindsight what Leodegrance had done—he’d turned the move into a feint, a move designed to distract his opponent both in body and mind, while the real blow was delivered—a most effective fausse attaque.

Leodegrance accepted his bow and offered a slight one in return. Haviland reached up to remove his mask, thinking Leodegrance would do the same. The man did not. Instead, he strode over to Anjou and conducted a conversation in low, hurried French, looked his direction one more time, raised his foil in salute and departed the room with a farewell as unorthodox as his final attack had been.

‘Bien, monsieur, bien. You’ve done well. Master Leodegrance is very pleased.’ Julian Anjou came to him, all smiles. It was the most pleasant Haviland had seen the instructor look. ‘He has asked you to come back Thursday for another lesson. Also, there is a small competition in a matter of weeks. Master Leodegrance would be honoured to have you entered.’

‘He could not tell me himself?’ Haviland interjected sharply. This was by far the oddest lesson he’d ever had. ‘Are we to never speak? Does he ever remove his mask?’

‘Of course not!’ Anjou sounded shocked, as if he’d uttered blasphemy. Anjou lowered his voice, tinged with a hint of French condescension. ‘It is because of the accident, monsieur. You are an outsider, so perhaps you do not know. The scars are too hideous, too distracting for opponents. He wears the mask out of deference for you, monsieur, for all of his pupils.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘We are French, perhaps we are vain, but we put much stock in our beauty. Beauty is life to a Frenchman. We would not willingly inflict ugliness on anyone.’ Anjou inclined his head in a dismissive gesture. ‘Jusqu’à demain, monsieur.’

Haviland watched him depart with a shake of his head. That was the trouble with Frenchmen. They never quite answered your questions even when they did.

* * *

‘We’re going to have trouble with that one.’

Alyssandra looked up in time to see Julian slip inside the private viewing room to join her and Antoine. ‘He’s no trouble. I can manage him. I proved it today.’ She pulled her hair free of the pins that kept it tucked up and in place when she was Antoine Leodegrance and let it fall free about her shoulders. That felt better. She stretched her arms, relieving the tension that had built up in them during the match. She had handled the Englishman, but it had taken much of her strength and skill to do so.

‘Not that kind of trouble.’ Julian fixed her with a stare before moving his gaze and his conversation to Antoine. ‘Our Monsieur North has been asking questions. “When can he meet you?” “Why don’t you take off the mask?” “Why won’t you speak to him?”’

‘But you handled it all beautifully.’ Antoine gestured towards the peepholes where he’d watched the entire lesson. ‘I saw it. He understood.’

‘But he does not accept it,’ Julian answered sharply. ‘He’s been asking questions around the clubroom when the men gather after their exercise and in the main salle. He talks to everyone and everyone talks to him.’

‘Let them talk, there’s nothing anyone can tell him.’ Antoine remained unconcerned.

Alyssandra walked up behind Antoine’s chair to stand with her brother. It was a gesture she knew aggravated Julian, a non-verbal reminder that she and her brother were united on all things. ‘We’ve seen his sort before. He’s just another Englishman on the first leg of his Grand Tour. He’s just passing through like so many of them.’

Julian gave her a shrug of concession. ‘In that regard, you’re right and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. Those Englishmen are all looking for the same thing on their tours; a little cultural experience and a lot of sex.’ Julian paused thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You should arrange for him to meet one of your more sophisticated friends. Perhaps Madame D’Aramitz?’

‘Are you suggesting we spy on him?’ Alyssandra rebelled at the idea of Helene D’Aramitz enjoying North’s charms and reporting back all the details.

Julian’s eyes were twin orbs of calculation. ‘Yes, I am suggesting exactly that.’ He flashed her a cold smile. ‘I can keep an eye on him when he’s here at the salle, but it will be up to you to use your connections and to keep an eye on him in society.’ He gave Antoine a respectful nod. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to prepare for.’

‘I don’t think North is a threat,’ Alyssandra said after Julian left.

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Antoine blew out a breath. ‘I hate being tied to this chair. It should be me out there fencing him. We shouldn’t even have to worry about an inquisitive Englishman, but because of me, we do.’

What could she say? Her brother could no more change the facts of his existence than command his legs to walk. ‘We’ll manage. Julian makes too much of it.’

‘I think Julian is right. He does bear watching so he’s not given the chance to become trouble. But, I don’t think Helene D’Aramitz is the answer. She’s a terrible gossip and far too perceptive. Then we’ll have her asking questions, too. She’ll want to know why we’re so interested in what North does.’ Antoine’s face became thoughtful. ‘If anyone is going to watch him in society, it should be you. It will eliminate the risk of exposing ourselves unnecessarily to outside parties. Will you do it?’

Her stomach somersaulted at the prospect of engaging the handsome Englishman on two fronts: as the masked, mysterious Leodegrance, and in person as herself. Part of her—the very feminine part of her that responded to him as a handsome man— revelled in being able to meet him on her own merits. But the other part of her understood the enormous risk she ran. ‘La petite déception’ had just become a grande one. She must don two identities in order to preserve one. The feminine part of her could not afford to be distracted from the professional goal of protecting the salle and Antoine. She would start tonight. She had a fairly good of idea of where North and his friends would be. Anyone of note was attending Madame Aguillard’s Italian musicale.

Alyssandra squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Yes, of course, I will do it,’ she said as if there’d ever been a choice.

Chapter Four (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)

The match lingered on his mind that evening, distracting Haviland from Madame Aguillard’s elegantly appointed entertainment. The musicale was unable to hold his attention for long no matter how lovely the Italian soprano, or how talented the pianist who accompanied her or even how often the hostess herself trailed her beautifully manicured fingers down his arm in provocative suggestion. No matter the enticement, his mind drifted back to the faceless, silent Leodegrance. Even without words, without a visage, the man had a charisma that had drawn Haviland. The force of that presence was disturbing to say nothing of the circumstances in which it had been felt. Fencing with Leodegrance had been like fencing a phantom. He’d never faced an opponent shrouded quite literally in such mystery. He couldn’t quite get over it, or past it.

‘Stop brooding,’ Nolan scolded sotto voce as they moved through the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.

Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.

He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.

‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.

Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’

‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.